lay it in the heart(h)
and
watch with unglazed eyes.

see the blaze play its part.

as it consumes all to ashes
before it
reluctantly wanes and dies.

Captured and shackled
to a wick of flesh and bone.

Thoughts as kindle,
takes spark -
setting alight what fuel
that runs within.

Anticipated blaze -
you know but never
acknowledge.

Time is here and now...

So pardon me
while I burst
into flames...

.

A swing slung low with weathered ropes
Worn, sun-beaten wood told tales of abuse
Once swung high - a vessel for the her hopes
Never once judged, even everyday a new bruise

It’d take her, accommodating her heart’s fancy
It’d carry her and cradle her fragility gentle
She’d forget her tears as she flew almost freely
Winds would whisper of a place far and simple

It’d scoop her up - made light of what seemed heavy
It’d drink up her laughter, release her captive innocence
It’d hold her aloft as it promised her safety
Together they’d immerse, in an intimate dalliance

Went on forever, as days turned into weeks
A girl and her swing, lost in their very own world
Alas the swing couldn’t offer the salvation she seeks
None could tell, what evil twist had brutally unfurled

                                     •••

A swing hung limp, silent as it woefully wept
Its worn wood sang only songs of stifled cries
For once it knew a girl, whose painful secrets it kept
Now judges itself remorsefully, as she fades and dies

A shot in the dark.
Spearing into the moonless sky.
Trailing reddish orange.
Shedding inconsequential sparks.

Incendiary…

An extension…
A digitless hand
of a troubled mind.
A sinking reach,
amidst troubled waters.

A prolonged moment of grief,
and helplessness…
That echoes into countless sets and rises.

Darkness looms…
Always…



And I’m all out of flares…


.

The boy no longer goes by that name
He was told that it only cycles the same

That boy you once knew is no longer
The battles he fought only saw him falter

Most would say to persevere like anyone should
But he ate into himself like you knew he would

Weak is his spirit like the sun rays of a new day’s dawn
A mere thread holds feeble before he is long gone

.
     Our stance strong,
     our conviction -
     unwavering,
     brandishing knives
     with blunt tips.

                           But our hearts fail
                           to acknowledge
                           the shallow
                           and feeble breaths
                           that hide behind
                           cracked ribs.

.
Peer into the keyhole.

And seek what you may…

But with your eyes
you will find not,
what it is you seek.

For it must be the heart
that commands this salvage.

.

The mind
must realise

just as
the heart
must feel.

That these
thoughts
do bite

and that
the perils
are real.

It’s so old and used,

and it barely did it’s job.

It had to be quickly replaced,

and put down...
                              without a sob.

our mouths go dry,
our actions get lazy,
our anchors unmoored,
our directions change,
our bearings are misaligned,
our charts remain unplotted,
our complacencies swell,
our greed metastasise,
our ignorance nurtured...


How then,
would our story end?

.

Promises of respite
from sallowed ashes,

adorned with feathers
from a thousand culled doves.

Haplessly wishing that freedom
comes soon.

A hope ensnared
in the clench
of crimson-stained gloves.

They say
that love
is a fool’s errand...

I guess
I just enjoy
running errands.

Take me to the swan-graced waters...
Where dragonflies would visit,
and skim the surface on tireless wings.

I’d sit with the grounds’ keepers
- the cicadas.
Invisible guardians,
whose shrill song and calls
would only echo through the sparse foliage
and trees - entrancing me into a state of
accompanied aloneness.

A calming solitude,
that enables the eyes
to lapse into a deep,
unjudging gaze into the lake.

And as time slows to a halt,
each breath would lengthen...
The sun would dip into the distant edge
of the lake.
And my heart would skip
as it interprets the dance of the sun
on the water.

When a child throws a tantrum,
he’d cry and scream and wail.
He’d flail his arms and throw himself on the floor.

Like a child I have tantrums too.

But I have grown past the luxury where it is acceptable for me to openly showcase such explosive displays of displeasure and discontent.

So what do I do?
I have to carefully select words that possibly could capture the essence of the disquiet in my heart and mind.

And I pen them down in tears.







This is me,
and I’m throwing a tantrum.

The curtains will close,
only if we’ll allow it.

Not now…
Not at each darkened hour -
where the cycle of ticking hands
seem to wipe clean, the ash and dust
off the faces of every clock.

                     •••

When the curtains finally do close…
And a little too late…

May the drapery be large enough
to grant eternal peace
and enshroud all the bodies that lay

but not our eyes…


Our hearts…


Our resolve…

A flow so eloquent,

it almost explains the reasons

behind unspoken meanings

and blaring untruths.

A voice for the mysteries of my universe.

Even though it trips in gait,

and speaks in babbles.

Molten stories smelted
and poured like ashened gold.

We turn to paper
as coffers for lesser ingots - old.

In hopes to lessen;
nay, diminish thy gaping hole.

In hopes to relinquish
and set free caged memories stole.

.

A tombstone
that lays unseen…
Unmarked
but known to a few.

”Herein
lies a heart
that beats
in syncopation -
for two.”

.

I’ve had this snowflake.

Something so delicate,
pure and unique,
resting upon my open palm.

Such preciousness,
I’d never want
to lose it to the passing gale
or the spiteful sun.

So I held it in a clench.
And I’ve held it like that
ever since.

In my fist,
forever it will live.

Never again
will I hold it
in an open hand.

Because I’m afraid.
I’m afraid if I did,
then I would know,
for sure that it had gone.

That it had melted
by the warmth
of my grip
and slipped away quietly
through my fingers,
and into the night.